


once bitten, twice shy

by hockeycaptains (poppyseedheart)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Office, Break Up, Exes, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Getting Back Together, Holidays, M/M, Taylor Hall Angst About Wasted Potential and The Dangers of Holding Out Hope - freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyseedheart/pseuds/hockeycaptains
Summary: “So who is he?” asks Nico quietly, once the ruckus has died down some. Taylor very briefly considers asking management to replace his intern, but it’s not the kid’s fault he’s curious.Taylor racks his brain, and then makes a very, very stupid decision. “His name is Jordan,” he says, and that’s when it really starts to go wrong.





	once bitten, twice shy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentghosts/gifts).



> SURPRISE!! Honestly Alyssa, I saw that you signed up for our mini flash exchange and knew immediately that I wanted to write you something. Here's a fic about what happens when you try to fake date your ex, and also about the constant fear that you're not living up to your own potential. This is super unbeta'd because a) Christmas, and b) we were on a v v short timeline. Shoutout to Jarka anyway for humoring me.
> 
> Title is from Last Christmas, because of course it is. I hope you enjoy this! <3

Taylor doesn’t know why he does it. He’ll cite it as an accident later, and maybe it was—he’s certainly tired enough, working overtime in the office with his fourth cup of coffee for the day sitting next to him, to make the absurd mistake that he does. The room is empty, everyone else having left when they were actually supposed to clock out, so it leaves Taylor alone trying to finish this project by Friday morning so he has something to present at the meeting. It’s stressful, and frustrating, and he’s so, so tired, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that he RSVPs to the office Christmas party after a 12-hour work day and inexplicably marks that yes, he will be bringing a plus one.

Normally, this would be fine. Unfortunately, the reality is that Taylor has been single for over 6 months, which his co-workers mostly know. Many of them have heard him complaining about boy trouble enough to think that his situation is hopeless.

The next morning at work, though, Taylor blearily wanders in to hearty congratulations. 

“Sorry, what?” he says. “Guys, my birthday was like a month ago.”

The joke falls flat, but no one seems bothered by the attempt. They’re still laughing and slapping him on the back.

“You’re back off the market,” says Miles, who makes up for being the only one to say anything useful by nudging Taylor in the side so hard he almost spills his coffee. “Andy shared the good news with us all in this morning’s email.”

“To Hallsy!” yells Cory, lifting up his hand. The cheer is echoed throughout the office, made even more ridiculous by the fact that most of them don’t even have drinks. Taylor spots at least three of them toasting with staplers.

He shakes his head.

“So who is he?” asks Nico quietly, once the ruckus has died down some. Taylor very briefly considers asking management to replace his intern, but it’s not the kid’s fault he’s curious. 

Taylor racks his brain, and then makes a very, very stupid decision. “His name is Jordan,” he says, and that’s when it really starts to go wrong.

The room, oblivious, congratulates him again, rowdy assholes that they are.

Taylor, quietly, despairs.

/

The story goes like this: when Taylor was 18 he fell head over heels in love with the wrong person.

He didn’t know it was the wrong person at the time. In his weaker moments, Taylor still doesn't think he's the wrong person, even after everything. That’s what makes the story an interesting one, Taylor guesses. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. 

They were roommates freshman year, because of course they were. Taylor spent about 8 months being blissfully ignorant of his feelings, and then about three weeks before the two of them left for the summer they all hit him at once, a fierce cacophony of “YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH HIM, MORON” that he couldn’t ignore even if he tried (and he _tried_ ).

In the longer version of the story, they kiss for the first time after a cheap-whiskey-fueled mutual confession of feelings behind a barn at a party that some of the guys on the school’s hockey team threw. Taylor’s hands were shaking when he put them on Jordan’s waist. 

They kept living together for all four years, because they were codependent idiots pretty much from the first day they met, and they worked in the same city for a couple years after that, too. It went wrong, but the memories that Taylor recalls most vividly are of the apartment they shared with Luke and Connor, the parties they went to at Darnell and Leon’s, and the wild rush of graduating together, feeling absolutely invincible, like they were going to be something incredible. That’s how the story was always supposed to end, with the two of them successful and happy and on top of the world—and, most importantly, together. 

/

Standing outside of Jordan’s door feels a lot like waiting for an executioner to arrive. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands in front of him. He wanted to just text and be done with it, but he knows that this will take some convincing.

He runs over his pitch. _It’s just one night, it’s not a big deal, we don’t even have to do anything over the top, we know how to act like we’re in love with each other_. And the final, most fervent part: _please_. 

He doesn’t know that it’ll work, mostly because it’s been a long time since they were in the same place at the same time. The last time he saw Jordan, he was walking out of Taylor’s apartment, shoulders hunched angrily as he braced himself to head out into the cold. “Where are you gonna go?” Taylor had yelled after him, feeling strangely desperate as the heat of his anger simmered away.

“I’ll figure it out!” Jordan yelled back without turning around.

Presumably, he made the trek from New Jersey to Edmonton without issue. It’s a long trip, but not a particularly exciting one. Taylor knows that by experience, though he was going the other way when he last made it.

Another minute passes. Taylor is starting to get nervous. What if Jordan isn’t home? What if he doesn’t even live here? Taylor likes to think he would’ve found out eventually about a change in address, but it’s impossible to know what’s going through Jordan’s head at any given moment. Maybe Taylor got the wrong address in the first place when Jordan moved less than a month ago. They’re on friendlier terms now than they were six months ago, but still. Still. 

Taylor waits a few more seconds before shoving his hands back into his pockets and admitting defeat. He starts to turn around, promising himself that he’ll come back tomorrow through the fog of disappointment hanging around him.

The door swings open.

Taylor feels like the breath has been punched out of his lungs.

“Hi,” he says.

Jordan blinks, eyes wide. “Hi,” he echoes. “Uh, what are you doing here?” 

It’s a strange relief to Taylor that he’s not the only nervous one here. “I wanted to ask you something,” he says. 

Jordan nods, then steps back in a jerky motion. “Sorry, do you want to come in? Have a drink?”

“Yeah,” says Taylor. “That would be nice.” He knows he sounds a little breathy, mostly just relieved that he made it inside. He figured this would be the hardest part, but Jordan’s always been good at surprising him.

They go inside. The furniture in the entryway looks the same, which should be obvious but is still startling. The mirror and clock Jordan got for graduation are both up, and the small table still bears the scratches on the front left leg from where Taylor banged it on the doorframe the second time they moved in together, way back when they were both going to school in Canada. He catches his reflection and shakes his head to dispel the memories before following Jordan into the living room, which is messier than Jordan usually is.

“Drink?” prompts Jordan.

“Just water’s fine,” says Taylor, because as much as he’d love something harder he knows this is the best option right now for both of them.

Jordan leaves, then comes back with water for both of them. “So what’s up?”

Taylor feels drastically overdressed in his coat and scarf, but it feels too late to get up and take them off. Jordan, meanwhile, looks comfortable in his sweatpants and long sleeved t-shirt. The scarf scratches against Taylor’s neck, so he pulls at it. “I need a favor.”

“From me?”

“Yeah.”

Jordan takes a long drink of water. “What do you need? You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“No,” says Taylor, relieved to be able to answer that one honestly. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just said something that wasn’t totally true and I- well, the situation is that- I didn’t think anyone would notice that I- I said I would have a date to my company’s holiday party this weekend.” It all comes out in a rush, getting even faster with nerves every time he restarts the sentence

Jordan blinks once, then twice, slowly. “Okay,” he says. “And you need my help why?”

“I need you to pretend to be my date on Saturday,” says Taylor. “It’s just one night. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would know how to convincingly pretend to date me.”

“Jesus, Hallsy.”

“I know,” says Taylor. “It’s stupid. It’s really stupid! I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

Jordan is still just looking at him, and then Taylor sees the exact moment he breaks. His serious expression melts into an incredulous smile, and he shakes his head in defeat. “Only you.”

“We’ll get drunk. I’ll buy you dinner, too, and you can stay at my place if you want. It’ll be fun,” Taylor says, and Jordan laughs but Taylor’s on a roll, buoyed by how unbelievably easy that was, “and all you have to do is not expose my embarrassing lie. Simple.”

“I’ve been in New York for three weeks and you rope me into this. I should’ve known moving here would be a mistake.” The words should be cutting, but Jordan’s never been very good at aiming to kill, and the smile on his face gives him away so transparently it makes Taylor dizzy.

 _I missed you so much_ , he doesn’t say, because things are fragile and he can’t afford to spook Jordan before the party.

“I’ll pick you up at 7:30,” he says instead, ignoring how familiar it feels to be making plans like this. “Wear something nice.”

Jordan rolls his eyes. “Unlike you, I have a lot of nice formal clothes.”

“A lot,” mocks Taylor, “what, like three looks?”

“That’s plenty!” Jordan laughs, pink in the cheeks like he gets when he’s defensive. Taylor’s chest hurts. Being here hurts, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

It’s just a few more minutes of empty banter before he makes his excuses and goes. The biting chill of the wind outside is grounding. By the time Taylor gets back onto the highway, his head almost feels clear. Almost.

/

The story goes something like this: Taylor was always supposed to make something of himself. 

He was talented in sports and school, affable and excited and driven, and it all led to him getting into a four year university with the full intent to go into business and become a CEO somewhere. If pressed, he’d admit that he wanted to do something sports-related, but his personal interests have always stayed on the back burner. It was about success, not the fun of it, and for a while that was more than enough to push him through.

His first job out of college was an internship in Edmonton. It turned into an entry level position, which turned into a couple of promotions, but it was equal parts frustrating and miserable to feel so useless as the company’s sales continued to trend downward no matter how hard Taylor worked.

It was like a sports team, where Taylor dreamed of gold and ended up out of the tournament altogether, over and over, with his superiors expecting more from him than he knew how to give.

And yeah, it’s a clumsy metaphor. It doesn’t encompass the late nights he spent at that office, or the strain it put on his relationship on Jordan when he took a position in Jersey after being warned he was next in line to be let go of when layoffs came around. It doesn’t cover how he needed reading glasses at 22, or the way his doctor warned him against arthritis because of how much time he spent with his hand cramped up trying to re-crunch the numbers after hours.

The point is that Taylor’s shoulders feel heavy with the weight of unmet expectation. He doesn’t know a lot about the multiverse theory, but he imagines that this, at least, holds true across all of them.

It’s a depressing thought, but then again it sometimes feels like a depressing life.

When his dad calls to ask how work is going, he thinks about the fact that he isn’t getting a Christmas bonus this year because this company’s struggling, too, and some days it feels like he’ll never stop being mediocre at best. “Good,” he tells his dad, and then his mom and siblings after that when they ask after him. His voice echoes in his empty apartment. “Yeah, I like it here. I’m working hard. It’s all good.”

/

It is 7:45pm on Saturday and Taylor is standing outside of Jordan’s door with a hand outstretched trying to find it in himself to knock. He got held up leaving the house because he had to stare into the full length mirror in his bedroom and have a minor crisis before leaving, but he’s here now and he can get through the night without any hiccups—any major ones, at least.

He takes a breath, cold air searing his lungs, and knocks.

Jordan opens the door immediately, like he was waiting in the living room, and he has his coat on already, scarf tucked around his neck. “You made it,” he says, and it’s a little mocking but he also sounds genuinely pleased

“Yeah,” answers Taylor a half-second too late. “You ready?”

Jordan looks down at himself, then back up at Taylor. Even his boots laces are tied. Point made. Taylor smiles and shrugs, leading the way back to the train station.

They walk briskly, snow falling in delicate flakes onto their heads and shoulders and sticking to their coats. “So what’s the game plan?” asks Jordan after a block or so.

“Game plan?”

“Yeah, what’s the story? We gotta be consistent, right? Are we just pretending we never broke up?”

Taylor thinks back to the last time he got drunk on Henny’s couch, sharing the awful sad bitter story of how he was going to be alone forever, and proclaiming it all the louder because of the Jameson in his system. “Uh,” he says. “Maybe we just reconnected.”

Jordan agrees easily, and together they frame the story of their reconciliation. It’s more complicated than it needs to be, confusing and implausible, and if they want to convince anyone then Taylor knows they should streamline it, but the two of them are laughing on the train and it doesn’t seem even remotely worth it to break the moment.

The closer they get to the station they’ll be getting off on, the more Taylor feels the illusion slowly shatter. Right now, they’re goofing off like they used to, and none of it’s for show. At the party, he might be getting more street cred with his coworkers, but it’ll all be totally and completely fake. Even the bits that are real will be part performance. And right now, Jordan’s standing next to him with one hand loosely on the metal pole for stability and the other on his stomach as he laughs, eyes scrunched up, face half-buried in his scarf, and Taylor feels nineteen again with a fierce kind of nostalgia that pangs hard in his chest.

“What if we skip the party?” he says impulsively, fast so he can’t take it back.

Jordan’s laughter tapers off. “What?” He sounds surprised but not taken aback, mood charitable probably because of how much fun they’ve been having.

“We could skip it,” repeats Taylor. “Or just make a fast appearance or something. It doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

There’s a confused furrow in Jordan’s brow. “Was this whole thing a prank or something?”

“No,” says Taylor, “no, I just-“ He cuts himself off, doesn’t know how to explain everything running through his head right now. It’s not like he didn’t process the breakup when it happened. He thought he was over this, but they’re getting off the train now and Jordan looks so goddamn beautiful under the lamplight with the snowflakes falling down around them. 

“Are you feeling okay?” asks Jordan.

“Yeah,” says Taylor, but he isn’t even sure with how fast this has gone sideways. “Sorry, yeah, we’ll go.”

Jordan looks skeptical but doesn’t press it, and the party is only being held two blocks from the station so they don’t keep talking about it. Instead, Taylor keeps himself busy double checking the address on his phone. 

The party is held in the penthouse of an office building, different from the place they all work so as to maintain the illusion of holiday cheer. Everything looks normal and a little damp right up until they get out of the elevator, where everything kicks off. A drink is immediately thrust into Taylor’s hand by a very tipsy Nico, wide-eyed and giggly, who says, “I got you this so you can catch up! We just finished karaoke but the white elephant exchange is next.”

“Thanks,” says Taylor. It’s champagne, and the nice kind, too. “This is Jordan.”

“Oh,” says Nico, far too meaningfully to be casual. “Do you want a drink too?”

Jordan laughs, declines.

“Take the night off,” Taylor tells Nico, faux-authoritative. “You’re not my intern at parties.”

Nico nods seriously and reenters the crowd. Everyone is dressed nicely, and the place is dripping in holly and lights. Taylor feels a little lost, looking at it all, and he’s sure he can’t keep the expression off of his face. He’s never been any good at lying, and even worse at hiding his emotions in general. It’s just that the thought of wasting this night with Jordan mingling with his coworkers seems like the worst kind of waste, and Taylor is so tired of squandering opportunity. 

“He’s nice,” says Jordan, amused, still talking about Nico, and then turns to Taylor and just looks at him for a moment. “Hey, are you good?”

“I’m fine,” says Taylor, and it feels like he’s drowning.

Jordan looks at him for a second longer, and then grabs his hand and starts leading him deeper into the room. Taylor isn’t proud of the way he balks, trying to dig his heels in. “What are you doing?” he hisses, which is a grossly inappropriate reaction to being led into your own company’s party. 

“Trust me,” says Jordan, and Taylor’s like a puppet whose strings have been cut, following even though his heart is beating hard and fast in his chest.

They end up at the drink table, where a bunch of the guys are standing around laughing about something. Without even stopping to say hello, Jordan reaches over, grabs an unopened champagne bottle, and starts walking in the other direction, Taylor still in tow. Based on the fancy label, Taylor was right, and this is definitely the good shit. 

“Think there’s a way onto the roof from inside?” asks Jordan.

“The roof?”

“Yes, the roof. Keep up, Hallsy. We’re getting out of here, since you’re obviously miserable and you won’t talk to me about it. That’s what this is for.” Jordan holds up the champagne and wiggles it in front of Taylor. Before Taylor can even respond, he makes a triumphant sound and drags Taylor toward a door that boasts roof access tucked away behind the comically oversized tree. Someone waves at Taylor as they duck out, and Taylor feels guilty about pretending to not see them for all of a tenth of a second before the cold air knocks the wind out of him.

It’s snowing still, though it’s coming down harder now. “You’re not responsible for me anymore,” is the first thing Taylor says once his eyes adjust to the dark. The door has closed behind them, and Taylor hopes and prays that no one else inside is determined to get some air and ends up interrupting them. 

Jordan shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to face Taylor. “I know.”

“You didn’t have to come here with me, either. You could’ve just shut the door in my face.”

“I know. But honestly,” says Jordan, slower now, looking at his feet, “I don’t think I could’ve.”

Something dangerously, horrifyingly like hope leaps in Taylor’s chest. “I’m your ex-boyfriend,” says Taylor, trying to dull the edge of happiness trying to spread through his body. “That’s not how this works. I shouldn’t even have asked you in the first place.” He’d forgotten how good it was, being around Jordan. He’s paying for it now. “And fuck, when you kept asking me if I had your shit because you wanted it back I should’ve taken it as the hint it was and not-“

“Stop,” says Jordan, and Taylor has always, always been weak for him. “I was looking for an excuse to talk to you. We stopped cold turkey after being best friends for seven years and I couldn’t handle it.” Jordan’s phone lights up in his hand, and he only offers it a cursory glance before laughing. “That’s Nuge texting me, by the way. He says he hopes I know what I’m doing.”

Jordan got the Nuge in the divorce, surprising exactly no one. The breaking up with may have been mutual, but the fallout certainly wasn’t. He's still close with Connor, obviously, and the kid's doing well.

Taylor’s heart is going to stop in his fucking chest. “Do you?” he asks, louder than he means to.

Jordan cracks a lopsided smile. “Do I know what I’m doing? Not really.”

“Good,” says Taylor once he finds his voice. “Me neither.”

“I could tell,” ribs Jordan.

Taylor laughs and shoves at him, and Jordan shoves back, both of them giggling, snow still falling. Some of it gets caught in Jordan’s eyelashes. 

“I might’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too,” says Taylor when they’ve settled down.

“So you didn’t need a date to the party?”

“Oh,” says Taylor, “no, I totally did. But it took me like two minutes to realize that it didn’t feel like enough.”

Jordan nods like he gets it. “So where does that leave us?”

It would be foolish, Taylor thinks, to keep hoping, but he’s always been selfish. It doesn't usually work out for him, but that's never stopped him trying. “I want us to be talking again, at least. I don’t want this relationship to be just another thing I’ve ruined.”

“Shut up,” says Jordan. “We can talk about all that shit later, but…for this, we can start with dinner, maybe.”

“Dinner,” repeats Taylor. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good,” says Jordan. He’s smiling again, small at first but getting bigger, kicking one foot against the gray slush that’s accumulated here on the roof. After a moment of quiet, he wiggles the champagne in his hand again like he’s just remembering it’s there, which wouldn’t be surprising knowing how he gets in serious moments, all tunnel vision and no peripheral awareness. “You want?”

Taylor laughs, but he’s nodding already. “Straight from the bottle? God like, we’re in college again.”

Jordan pops the cork, which flies off the side of the building never to be seen again. Taylor spares half a thought for the people down below—they are a long way up—before proposing a toast with his imaginary champagne flute. The drink is still bubbling over Jordan’s gloves, but he doesn’t want to wait. “To new beginnings,” he says, quieter and less grand than he intended.

“Cheesy,” observes Jordan.

“Yeah,” says Taylor.

Jordan nods, smiles, and takes a swig. “New beginnings,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

This could, Taylor knows, go so horribly wrong, but the life he’s had so far has taught him to hold on tightly to what he has. Giving Jordan up was a stupid fucking mistake. He won’t mess that one up again. He swears.

Jordan passes the bottle over. Taylor takes a swig, shuts his eyes, and thinks fearlessly about the future.


End file.
